


unwanted flowers

by aresentfulcaretaker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dreams, Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:04:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aresentfulcaretaker/pseuds/aresentfulcaretaker
Summary: Will dreams he and Hannibal are in a meadow.





	unwanted flowers

Will is on his knees. He's restrained, held motionless by the coarse rope. It chaufs his skin, rubbing it raw. It's best to hold still and be patient. To do nothing will hurt less. 

He's in a meadow, his bare knees sinking deep into the moist soil. Without too much grief he is able to wiggle his toes, digging them into the dirt and feeling coolness between them. He's almost tempted to tilt himself, to fall to his side so that he might press his sun-heated skin to it. But then a shadow eclipses him and the world gets a little bit colder. 

Hannibal sits beside him, cross-legged. He's as naked as Will but far more comfortable. In his arms are flowers which he then sets beside him. He asks Will how he's feeling. 

"Sad."

There's a wrinkle in Hannibal's nose.  _Sad_ , such a simple word. A child's word, a vague and useless label for a feeling one doesn't understand. Will tells him before he can say this that, no, he doesn't understand what he's feeling. But he'd like to be touched. 

So Hannibal touches him. He scoots closer and picks up the first of his flowers. Delicately, he slides it between the woven rope and Will's skin. The stem bends at Will's nipple, jutted off to the side. Hannibal places one beside it, this time brushing his knuckles over the peaked nub. 

Will asks for his mouth, Hannibal gives him more flowers. More and more flowers until the rope barely visible, hidden by petals. They are soft against Will's skin but the gentleness only make him sadder. Hannibal stands to go, to pick more. Will asks him not to leave. 

He leaves anyway. 

Despite the bite of the rope, Will struggles to watch him walk away. But once he's out of sight, he's gone without a trace. An ache awakens in Will's chest, dull and brittle. It feels like a stone broken, marble coming apart. Will fears he is crumbling. Ending without witness. 

He struggles again, causing the rope to shift. It breaks the skin of his wrists and ankles, if only just. He cries out, his voice echoing without consequence. No birds fly, startled. Hannibal doesn't come back. 

The rope rubs his cock. The ways it's tied, it stimulates him from every angle, crisscrossed around his base. He doesn't want to be aroused, he doesn't want pleasure. But as he hardens he accepts he will need it. 

Flowers, all white. Poppies, Will thinks. They flutter down around him like snow, landing soft in the grass, catching in his hair. Hannibal bends over him, hands resting on his shoulders. He tells Will he's never been more beautiful. 

A kiss seems appropriate but Will is not given one. Again he is deprived, is only offer ed these unwanted flowers. He tells Hannibal he never asked for them. 

"Sometimes you don't ask for what you need."

Will frowns because what is that supposed to mean. He struggles in protest, worsening his wounds. A rivulet of blood runs down his palm and trails his finger. Hannibal watches it drip to the earth. 

Then he's lacing flowers into those knots around Will's wrists. He threads the thin stems through both ways, allowing the flowers to obscure everything that is not them. 

He leaves again. It's more difficult still for Will to watch him go. 

And it becomes a loop, seemingly never ending. Will sits, sore and touch starved while Hannibal claims to give him what he needs. But this is not what he wants, he's sobbing now, _this is_ not _what he wants_ . 

"Sometimes you don't want what you need."

Hannibal looks at him with far too much fondness for a man so cruel. He's weaving a flower crown, says it will look lovely atop the head of his darling boy. Will tells him not to call him that. He's lost the right.

Will doesn't know if he's ever felt such sorrow. Ever felt so uncertain, so repulsed but so attracted, so apart from yet so entirely himself. The ground has given way beneath him and he truly is sinking. The soil has swallowed his knees. His thighs shine, wet with tears. 

Again Hannibal asks how he feels. 

"Like I'm dying."

The other man tuts and smiles, joyful and pleased. Because that's just how he likes it. Will is both thrilled and angry that he, only he, can make Hannibal smile like that. Disappointed in himself for the submission, for the omission.

His cock has gone soft, left neglected. But his body still burns with need. The petals tease him, caressing his skin as he wishes Hannibal would. He knows he's never felt longing like this. It is wanting something so badly you feel you can't bear to want it at all. 

And he thinks time must have passed because the soil is up to his  waist . There's hopelessness in knowing Hannibal will never reach him there, as he's sinking. They're wasting time, he pleads, precious time. 

Hannibal places the flower crown atop his head and leaves. This time, for good.

And this time Will can watch him go as he exits directly in his line of sight. Until the flower crowd tips and becomes a blindfold. There's a weight to it, one that feels like praise, like an honor, like a gift. But there it is pushing him further underground, he is swallowed by the earth. The ropes tighten as he struggles, compressing him. It's unbearable, unbearable.

The flower crown is a ring over his grave, flourishing as it feasts on his decay. Though  now  dead,  _dying_ , he can feel  the  little  that  is left being taken from him. He is forced to accept that th is is his role. To give and to give and to take only what is given. 

When the flowers have eaten him down to the bone, Will wakes. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ❤


End file.
